Gyles V

He had awoken that morn with a pained groan. This early in the day, the air was still cool and crisp, and proved a mild balm to assuage the throbbing pain in his skull. The knocking at the door began once more after several moments of silence. "A moment!" Gyles shouted, wincing at the sharp lance of pain that pierced through his head upon doing so.

He staggered to his feet, and began to look for his breeches. Finding them draped across a chair after several moments of bleary-eyed observation about the room, Gyles shambled across the cold stone floor to them, and attempted to put them on. The moment he lifted a leg to do so, however, Gyles lost his balance and fell backwards onto his bed.

Cursing in annoyance, Gyles managed to wriggle into his breeches while laying flat on his back, finding the task much easier to do in his current state while not standing. Rising from the tangled coverlets, Gyles crossed the chamber to its door. As he reached to open it, he realized suddenly that his 'companion' from the night before had already left, a revelation that brought him immeasurable disappointment. Sighing dejectedly, Gyles pulled the door open.

In the hall beyond stood his father. After observing his son's disheveled appearance for a moment, he smiled apologetically. "Mayhaps I should have knocked less loudly."

With a pained grin, Gyles motioned his father into his chambers, which he promptly did, walking forward with the slight limping gait that he had possessed for all of his life. Closing the door behind them, Gyles walked to a table that contained a bowl of fruit, and grabbed a blood orange from the bowl. He began to peel it as his father crossed the room, and pulled open the heavy drapes that had been left closed.

"Seven Hells!" Gyles cursed loudly, as the sudden sunlight flooding throughout the chamber caused a fresh wave of pain and nausea to wash over him.

His father laughed. "It will do you good, my son." He turned to look at his son, with an expression of pride and affection. "You're a knight now, as of yesterday's ceremony. You should already be in the yard, continuing to hone your skills."

Gyles grinned, shielding his eyes from the bright morning light. "I have many skills and talents to hone, father. In fact, I was practicing my wordcraft with the smith's daughter last evening."

Gyles' father rolled his eyes. "A resounding success, I presume?"

Gyles chuckled. "I would dare to say so. She agreed to accompany me back to my chambers, to continue our fascinating conversation further. Needless to say, I ended up getting to hone some of my other talents as well before the evening was through."

Gyles' father held up a hand. "I've heard quite enough, thank you! Save the tales of your exploits last evening for the tavern."

Gyles smiled wickedly. "As you wish, father. For what reason do you grace me with your presence this morn? Should you not be compiling a list of every dust mote in the armory today?"

Gyles' father laughed. "Mayhaps I should be. Instead, I've chosen to speak with you. About what paths your future holds."

Gyles grimaced in sudden annoyance and turned away, popping a piece of the blood orange he held into his mouth. "Truly, father?" He groaned in exasperation. "I've been a knight for less than a day, and already you continue to assail me?"

Though he was not looking at his father, Gyles could guess that he now had an exasperated frown of his own upon his face. "My son," his father began, then hesitated. "Gyles," he said more firmly, and Gyles turned to regard his father.

"Your mother and I, we couldn't be more proud of what you've achieved. Countless archery contest victories, winning the squire's melee at the Tor, and now you've been knighted. I wish I could have been the man to knight you myself!"

With his hunchback and slightly twisted right leg, achieving a knighthood had never been a possibility for Gyles' father. That hadn't stopped him from spending much of his youth at the Citadel, while other boys his age served as pages and squires. However, Gyles' father had eventually decided against becoming a maester, and returned home to Yronwood, rising to become the Steward of his family's seat.

"However," his father continued after a long pause, "you're a man now. It is time to begin thinking more realistically about your future, and the opportunities available to you."

Gyles rolled his eyes. "Following you as Steward, you mean."

Gyles' father tensed angrily. "And why shouldn't you? You are more than skilled enough to follow me in the office. You would be of great value to your family, and this castle. It is honorable work."

Gyles let out an exasperated laugh. "Why shouldn't I? Because I don't want to fritter my life away amongst musty scrolls and lists, painstakingly counting coppers and scribbling meaningless notes on parchment! There has to be more to my life than quills and inkpots, father! I won't content myself with a life of mediocrity, as other men become the stuff of songs and histories!"

The moment he finished his tirade, Gyles regretted his words. Before he could apologize, however, his father retorted, his own face red with anger.

"Mediocre? Mayhaps you are right, my son. But I am also alive. My father, your grandsire, was a great warrior, renowned throughout the Red Mountains for his prowess. My brothers were all respected knights as well, or promising squires. And so they all sailed with the Prince Morion, hoping to share in the glory of the victory that he assured them all was to come. Do you know what happened to them?!"

Gyles grimaced and closed his eyes as his father continued to shout. "They were burned to ash by dragons, every single one of them! And as those ashes sank to the ocean's bottom along with the rest of the flotsam of Prince Morion's fleet, my father and brothers earned their place in history. And yet, of all my father's sons, only I was left to carry on his line!"

Gyles' father approached him, his tone and expression suddenly sorrowful. "I've read many histories in my life, Gyles. For every man that achieves immortality within its pages, there are ten thousand men who die forgotten. Histories are drenched with the blood of these forgotten men. If they're lucky, mayhaps they leave kin behind to grieve for them, and if they're unlucky, mayhaps not. It matters not. They are dead all the same."

Gyles had heard enough. Any remorse he had felt for insulting his father had been replaced by a sudden, burning anger. Tossing the blood orange aside, he grabbed his shirt from the tabletop where it had been left the night before, and put it on. He quickly put on his boots, as the effects of the previous night's wine were burned away by his rage.

"Gyles," his father began, with an apologetic and rueful tone. Gyles ignored his father, and walked towards his chamber's door. "Gyles!" His father called again, reaching for his shoulder. Gyles wrenched free of his father's grasp and entered the hallway beyond his chambers. He swung the door shut behind him, slamming it.

In the moment before it closed, Gyles could still see his father standing there, with a stricken expression upon his face. In that moment, Gyles could tell that there was so much more that his father wished to tell him. However, he did not care to listen.


Gyles woke with a start, and his sudden movement knocked some of the snow off of the fur pelt that he had draped atop himself for warmth. Though the depression at the base of the rock face was shallow, it provided him and Evenfall some protection from the falling snow. It has been ages since I dreamed of home. Of all the memories of his life in Dorne that he could have dreamed of, Gyles had the misfortune to remember one of the worst.

Ever since the argument he had with his father the day after he was knighted, Gyles had gone through the motions of preparing to be Castle Yronwood's next steward, oft following his father on his rounds. Though he never said so, I think that father knew as well as I did that I had no heart for it. In truth, Gyles had just been waiting for an opportunity to leave Yronwood, and make a name for himself. In the time before his exile, he had been aimless in his dissatisfaction with his lot in life. Mayhaps getting myself into trouble would have been inevitable.

If not getting exiled, mayhaps Gyles would have instead joined some Vulture King in yet another doomed perennial war against the Dragon Kings' realm. Mayhaps I would have joined a free company, or fought as a mercenary in the Stepstones. So many possible paths, and nearly all of them now seemed foolish and ruinous. There seems to be no shortage of ways to get oneself killed, and quickly at that.

Rising to his feet, Gyles rolled up the fur that he had slept beneath into a tight roll, before securing it to Evenfall's saddle. Leading his sand steed away from the rock face's depression, Gyles hopped into the saddle. My search continues. The gamekeeper's lad was still missing, and Gyles had made it his mission to find him.

Melwick? Or was it Mikken? Try as he might, he couldn't remember the lad's name. He had been eager to help Tristifer and Gyles in their efforts to scout ahead of the party for potential dangers. Against his better judgement, Gyles had agreed. His father is the gamekeeper of Corn Cob Hall, and the lad had been training for the role with him. I thought that such experience would be enough for scouting. It had not taken long for such a mistake to make itself clear. On only his second day of scouting, the lad had vanished, much to the distress of his parents, sisters, and the rest of Ser Jaehaerys' remaining smallfolk.

Bringing them along with us may have been a mistake. After the bandits' attack on Corn Cob Hall, Ser Jaehaerys had decided that the continued defence of his family's seat for the winter's duration was untenable. When he had learned that the ultimate destination of the Queen's party was Maidenpool, he had asked to come along with his smallfolk, and any provisions that they could carry. It is his intent to have his smallfolk winter at Maidenpool, where they will be safe, and return to Corn Cob Hall when a lasting peace has returned to the land.

Though he had been hesitant to agree to such a course of action, Gyles had ultimately acquiesced, along with a majority of the party. It is what Ser Jarmen would have wanted. Yet another man had given his life so that Gyles could keep his. Two warriors, and both of them better men than I. For all that the ancient knight spoke of his fate being his own, Gyles couldn't help but still feel some amount of guilt for Ser Jarmen's death.

When the dust of the battle outside Corn Cob Hall had settled, it was discovered that both Ser Jarmen and Captain Garth of the Gold Cloaks had been slain, along with several of House Corne's smallfolk. All had been buried before the journey continued. Twas a simple burial, but a burial nonetheless. Ser Jarmen had deserved more than a simple grave beneath a tree, but it was the best that could be given to him in the current circumstances. Ser Jarmen would have understood. He would tell me that it is now time to focus on the journey ahead, and to travel onward with courage. Gyles smiled sadly.

When he truly considered it, the burden that Gyles realized sat most heavily on his shoulders was the weight of expectation that he now felt. Ser Jarmen saved my life for a reason. He taught me the Prince Aemon's way, a legacy that he had spent his entire life trying to uphold. Gyles frowned. In saving me, Ser Jarmen has inexorably linked me both to himself, and the Prince Aemon. Theirs is a legacy that is now mine to uphold. Gyles' hands tightened on Evenfall's reins. I will try, Ser Jarmen.


He saw the faint plume of smoke long before he found the abandoned fire pit. It was in a small clearing within the woods, surrounded by tall trees adorned with brittle limbs devoid of any foliage. Though there were clear signs of a recent campsite, the clearing was thoroughly abandoned, and devoid of life. Who was staying here? The grisly answer to Gyles' question made itself all too clear when he noticed a trail of blood that led to the base of one the trees at the clearing's edge.

A corpse was tied to the tree, pale and frozen. As Gyles approached it, a deeper and deeper sense of dread began to overtake him. The gamekeeper's lad. The young man's hands had been tied behind his back in a way that they were tightly bound about the tree's trunk. Two other ropes had similarly secured his neck and ankles in place. Worst of all, however, were the arrows. They were haphazard in distribution, but many in number, sticking out of the corpse of the gamekeeper's son. He was used as target practice.

Gyles' fist clenched. He had hoped that the band of outlaws led by Bryard Bones would not so quickly have learned of the defeat suffered by their comrades outside of Corn Cob Hall. It appears that our hopes were unrealistic. Gyles suddenly felt very unsafe. Exposed as he was in the clearing, he felt as though a thousand eyes were watching him from the gloom of the forest beyond. Gyles shook his head, as a sense of burning anger quickly consumed and replaced the fear within him. To hell with them. Let any watchers try to attack me, if they dare.

Gyles climbed from Evenfall's saddle, and tied his loyal steed to a nearby tree. Drawing his dagger from his belt, he approached the corpse of the gamekeeper's son. Cutting the stiff and frozen ropes, Gyles lowered the rigid corpse to the ground. One by one, he pulled each arrow free of the lad's corpse. Several of the arrow shafts snapped as Gyles attempted to pull them free, and all were covered in a coat of dark congealed blood.

Once he had pulled all the arrows loose as best as he could, Gyles knelt, and scooped the corpse of the young man into his arms. He is lighter than I expected. Gyles frowned deeply. He was still half a boy, not yet a man grown. While many of the smallfolk of House Corne had been subdued in disposition following the defeat of the bandits outside Corn Cob Hall, many of the younger lads amongst their number had been exhilarated, the gamekeeper's son among them. He saw our journey north as a dangerous and exciting adventure, one which he wanted to have a larger role in. I don't think the possibility of dying ever crossed his mind.

Walking a short distance into the forest, Gyles found a small depression in the earth, and laid the lad's body there. Cutting down branches from several evergreen trees, he laid them atop the young man, covering him as best as he could. I can do little better. There is no way for me to dig him a grave, and I must needs get back to the party. I need to warn them of the danger ahead. The rest of the bandits likely await our approach as we continue north.

Untying Evenfall, Gyles climbed back into the saddle, and began to ride south, out of the clearing. With any luck, it would not take him too long to find the main road, and the group as they continued along it. With the party's recent influx in numbers, many of them smallfolk that walked on foot, their pace was much slower. They'll be easier to find, Gyles thought hopefully. They'll also be easier to track. Gyles frowned. I must needs move quickly.

As he continued to ride, a sudden errant realization came to his mind. Myles. The boy's name was Myles. The simple thought made Gyles grimace in sudden pain, and grief. Damn those fucking brigand bastards, damn them to the Seventh Hell. Gyles dug his spurs deep into Evenfall's flanks. Faster. I have to move faster.


It was nearly dark by the time Gyles found the party. It appears I wasn't the first. His heart sinking, Gyles observed what was obviously the aftermath of a particularly vicious fight on the road, along a portion that was surrounded by dense evergreen forest on either side. He reined in his horse as he cleared the treeline at the roadside, and held up his palms to show that he meant no harm.

After several moments, several bows and a crossbow that had been aimed at Gyles were lowered as those who wielded them recognized Gyles. Approaching the party at a slow trot, Gyles began to make out more clear details about the recent fight in the evening gloom. A fair amount of the corpses strewn about had the same look as the brigands that Gyles had fought outside of Corn Cob Hall. Several corpses, however, to Gyles' frustration, had the look of smallfolk, or wore tattered gold cloaks. We lost less people, but they've bled us all the same. Methinks we do not have the numbers to continue such a war of attrition.

The mounted warriors had formed a sort of loose impromptu ring about the center of the group, which was largely made up of smallfolk. For every man of fighting age amongst the peasants, there were at least two more women, children, aged, or the infirm who couldn't fight. Gyles grimaced. Our chances of survival will only grow slimmer with each skirmish, and the deaths and wounds that come with it.

Ser Torrhen Manderly, upon seeing Gyles' arrival, had directed his horse to meet him halfway, and both men reined in their mounts a short distance from the muddy roadside. "When?" Gyles asked gravely, after pulling down his scarf from over his mouth.

Ser Torrhen shifted in his saddle. "About an hour ago," the stout knight replied. "They were testing us, these brigands. They knew that we were dangerous, and wished to know exactly how dangerous we are." The red-faced northman huffed out a misting breath into the icy winter air. "Methinks they know now. They did not attack us expecting a victory. Now they are certain that we have far more women and children amongst our number than we do knights."

Gyles looked at the road as it continued to snake north, forlorn and shadowy under the last embers of dying daylight. "What is to be done?" he asked Ser Torrhen.

Ser Torrhen frowned deeply. "What else is there to be done? We continue north. There is naught else that we can do."

Gyles sat back in his saddle, feeling as though he wanted to curse. We can't leave the smallfolk behind, and yet they will continue to slow us down, and make us an easy target. Gyles rubbed the edge of his red and running nose vigorously with a mailed finger. Shit. No matter how he considered their situation, he could not think of any clear path to triumph. Not even a victory. The best that some us can hope for now is survival.

Was the entire party doomed to such a fate? Losing members one by one, until a forlorn few survivors take the last horses and make a desperate flight further north? Even then, chances of survival if such a future came to pass would be slim. I won't be one of them. Gyles gritted his teeth in silent rage. I won't run from these degenerate brigands. I'll stay and fight, until one of them runs me through, or cuts my head from my shoulders. He hoped that Mors and Ser Jarmen would understand. Your legacy may end up being short-lived, but I will carry it as honorably as I can until my end.

As he observed the sorry state of the party around him, Gyles asked Ser Torrhen a final question: "How many did we lose?"

Ser Torrhen scratched at his bristling and frozen mustache for a moment, before responding in a bleak tone. "Four more of Captain Byrch's gold cloaks, and seven of Ser Jaehaerys' smallfolk. Two of them were women. We couldn't bring them within the defensive circle quickly enough. The bandits cut down anyone that they could find with impunity."

Ser Torrhen nodded in the direction of a wagon within the group's center. "Several were wounded, though by the grace of the Seven, many of the wounds are quite minor." Ser Torrhen grimaced. "Not all, however. Ser Jaehaerys' castellan may lose an arm, and Ser Willam Royce has been gravely wounded as well. Both are being carried in that wagon."

Gyles looked at Ser Torrhen in shock. Of all our knights, Ser Willam was one of the last that I expected to take a grievous wound in combat. "What happened?" Gyles asked seriously.

Ser Torrhen shook his head. "Ser Willam had dismounted to help one of Ser Jaehaerys' greybeard servants reach safety. He succeeded in doing so, but a brigand cracked his helm with their morning star." Ser Torrhen's shoulders sagged. "He is currently unconscious. Ser Jaehaerys' maester does not know if he will ever wake."

Night was falling fast, so it appeared that the site of the ambush would be where the party would also encamp for the night. Gyles watched as his breath rose into the wintery air as a plume of white-grey steam. Would that we all had wings, and could fly far away from here. To somewhere safe, where murderers and cutthroats do not lurk in every shadow. Gyles frowned, and thought of the Queen Rhaenyra's dragonseeds, the three that had been slain in battle over Tumbleton by the two traitors and the Prince Daeron. Sers Maegor, Gaemon, and Addam Velaryon. Would that they still lived, and could deliver us from our foes.


Though the crumbling hillfort in the distance was not an exactly shocking sight, the men who had appeared from its environs to approach the party were far from an expected encounter. They approached cautiously, and to Gyles' surprise, they carried a white flag as well, signifying a peaceful intent. Is this some manner of trick?

As the riders approached, Gyles quickly began to string his recurve bow. By the time they had reached Gyles and the other knights riding at the head of the party, Gyles had loosely nocked an arrow in his bow. No more mistakes. If this is cover for an ambush, I shall be ready.

The leader of the group of riders reined in his horse. He wore a suit of plate armor that had clearly once been of high quality and meticulous craftsmanship. By now, however, it had been reworked by the brutal tools of battle. Countless scars marred the armor's surface, and the armor was tarnished or dented most everywhere else. His tabard was ragged, and had been crudely patched in several places. Though the fabric had been largely white at one point in the past, the tabard now appeared to be a patchwork quilt of fading stains. These new colors were a dull morass that told the tale of long, dusty roads, and countless bloody battles. However, a large black manticore stitched across its center was still prominent enough to be clearly recognized.

The knight of the manticore lifted the visor of his battered helm. The face beneath was doughy, and sallow. He had a stubby, squashed nose, and small, dark, and beady eyes that gave him an altogether porcine appearance. It as though someone thought to dress a hog in armor.

The knight cleared his throat, and began to speak in a reedy, nasally voice. "Greetings. I am called Ser Amory, of House Lorch." The knight paused a moment, looking beyond Gyles and the other knights to the large group of miserable smallfolk that walked in a close-knit mass behind them. "It has been some time since we have seen any bold enough to brave these roads, as Bryard Bones and his men continue to ravage the countryside between Maidenpool and Duskendale."

Ser Amory chuckled darkly. "You're all either very brave, or very foolish." The knight shook his head, and waved an arm at his men arrayed behind him. "No more foolish than we are, I suppose."

By this point, Ser Torrhen had made his way to the group's front, and had overheard Ser Amory's introduction. "Forgive me, Ser," the northern knight began, "but is House Lorch not one of the bannermen of the Lannisters?"

Gyles was shocked. A Green, out here? How is it even possible? However, with his tattered tabard and battered armor, Ser Amory looked little and less like a proud noble loyal to the Usurper. He looks more like one of the robber knights that have been shadowing our movements north.

Ser Amory laughed bitterly, a high-pitched squeal that only continued to build upon his pig-like appearance. "I suppose that you could say so. I have not marched beneath my liege's banner in months, however. My foes care not for one monarch, nor t'other. The only master that they heed is plunder."

Ser Amory looked skyward. "As my numbers dwindle, however, theirs only continue to grow." Ser Amory frowned deeply. "I used to command one hundred riders. After the Battle by the Lakeshore and Ser Criston Cole's defeat, our numbers swelled ever higher with survivors! And now?" Ser Amory trailed off, and sighed. "All we've left to us is the men you see behind me, and a few archers hidden in those ruins yonder."

Ser Rayford Lothston scratched at the crimson stubble upon his chin in contemplation. "If these brigands are truly your foes, as you say they are, why take refuge in a ruined fort? Surely these brigands will easily find you there, and attack in much greater numbers."

Ser Amory nodded. "You are right, of course," was the knight's simple response. "However, I no longer have any choice. I no longer have enough men to continue roving the countryside fighting these bandits, as I have been." Ser Amory drew himself up, with an expression of cold resolve. "My men and I have chosen this fort as the site of our final confrontation with these godless curs. We will bleed them as well as we can before the last of us falls."

Ser Maric Massey did not appear convinced by Ser Amory's words. "But why you? Why here? The smallfolk of this region are those of your foes, the supporters of Queen Rhaenyra. You have no reason to protect them."

Ser Amory smiled, but his eyes remained cold. "If not I, then who? I will admit, my intentions were originally borne of self-interest, and a desire to survive above all else. Where were my men and I to go? Every army loyal to the King in the Riverlands had been scattered to the wind. Trying to escape the countryside would have meant death or capture for all of us, at the hands of the Pretender's lackeys."

Ser Amory chuckled as he regarded Gyles and the other knights before him. "It didn't take me long to realize how little the politics of the Realm matter amongst the ashes of its scorched fields. A farmer cares little for which monarch his lord bends the knee to as his winter stores are carried away and his family is slaughtered."

Ser Amory shook his head. "I am no bard, so I will say my words plainly. My war is here now. Not with the King's enemies, but with the enemies of the Realm. There can never again be peace and prosperity so long as cravens and cutthroats rule its lands, and rob, rape, and murder its peoples."

Ser Amory thumped a gauntleted fist against his battered breastplate. "Let it never be said that Ser Amory Lorch failed to defend the defenseless, and bring his sword to bear against those who would harm the innocent."


Though the hillfort was in a sorry state, its original builders clearly had a good mind for defensibility. Situated atop a hill that had long been cleared of trees, any enemy that tried to attack it would have to advance up the hill under fire from archers and crossbowmen, before then needing to either attempt to scale the fort's walls, or break through its gate. Unfortunately, there were many gaps in the crumbling wall, significantly hampering the effectiveness of the overall fortifications, and making any hopes for weathering a siege impossible.

Though they were technically foes in the greater conflict ravaging the Dragon Kings' realm, Ser Torrhen and Ser Amory had struck a temporary alliance. An alliance of convenience, but one that is absolutely necessary. Whether we marched beneath a Red or Gold dragon banner, such partisan differences will be impossible to discern if we all end up as bloody, rotting heads on the end of pikes.

Though the past few days had been already been full of odd discoveries and surprises, none was so odd as what occurred when the main force of brigands finally began to coalesce around the hillfort that had become the temporary home of Ser Amory and his survivors, the Queen's party, and Ser Jaehaerys Corne and his smallfolk.

Under a tattered white flag, a brigand had ridden a sway-backed stot up to the hillfort's gate, and requested a parley with the leaders of the fort's defenders. Arguments had immediately broken out amongst the defenders as to whether such an offer should be accepted. Many had been of the opinion that such an offer was merely an attempt by the brigands to isolate and behead the defenders' leadership, while others argued that the brigands had more than enough men to slaughter the occupants of the fort right now if they so chose.

Eventually, Ser Amory Lorch agreed to go, and requested that a knight from the Queen's party accompany him as his second. The fort's yard had been completely silent for several moments after the request. Few are so bold or as foolish as Ser Amory, to be willing to stick their head directly into the jaws of the dragon. After several moments of indecision, however, Gyles came to a realization. Ser Jarmen would volunteer. He would never ask another to put themselves into dangers that he would not be willing to brave himself. It was for that reason that Gyles had stepped forward and agreed to be Ser Amory's second.

And so it came to pass that Gyles and Ser Amory rode side by side into the center of the brigands' camp. There were enough of them that tents and cookfires completely surrounded the hill, and the fort atop it. However, the largest cluster of tents had been pitched directly along the road that led to the hillfort's gate. The brigands' leaders are making a point. They have a knife to all of our throats, and they wish for us to fully understand such truths.

Several bandits jeered at Gyles and Ser Amory as they passed, but the majority merely followed their approach with cold eyes, full of silent and merciless intent. The men that truly brought fear to Gyles' heart, however, were those that looked on at his approach with hungry, almost feral expressions. But what are the appetites that men such as these hope to sate? Gyles forcibly suppressed a shudder. One cannot show any fear when walking directly into the shadow cat's den. Do not give them a reason to pounce.

Reining up outside of the largest tent, Gyles realized with dark amusement that it had once been a Lord's pavilion. Mayhaps it is fitting, for these godless cutthroats are the only ones ruling in these forests. Climbing from Evenfall's saddle, Gyles handed the reins of his sand steed to a shifty-eyed bandit waiting expectantly near the tent's flap.

Gyles found an odd sort of consolation in the realization that his loyal mount would survive him, if he were to die. Evenfall is a magnificent creature, and sand steeds are a rare sight north of the Red Mountains. Whether he remains mine, or becomes the mount of some brigand, he'll live nonetheless. Wondering if this was the last time he'd ever see his loyal companion, Gyles affectionately patted his flank, and ran a mailed hand momentarily through his bronze mane. "Good lad," he whispered in Evenfall's ear, and then turned to face the flap of the pavilion.

Following Ser Amory, Gyles walked into the pavilion's interior. As his eyes took a moment to adjust to the gloom within, Gyles waited in tense anticipation for a dagger to plunge into his back, or a crossbow bolt to punch into his chest. Instead, he was greeted by the sight of three men seated in camp chairs at the pavilion's center.

At the left was a lithe man that had clearly been a foreigner to Westeros' shores for much of his life. His hair was the color of ash, and his eyes were a deep purple, so dark that they nearly seemed black. His armor was a mixture of form-fitting leather and light metal scale. What stood out the most to Gyles, however, were the pauldrons of his armor. They were inlaid with blood red rubies in the center, and surrounded by inlaid silver scrollwork written in High Valyrian. Though unable to read what it said, Gyles remembered the sight of the ancient language from long-ago lessons with the maester of Yronwood castle.

The man to the right wore much simpler accoutrements. Massive and muscled, he wore well-worn leather armor that bore numerous scars. The man's visage was as marked by battle as his armor, and he had a cruel grin upon his face. What was most startling about his appearance to Gyles, however, was the overall plainness of the man's features apart from his size. In another life, he could easily fit in amongst farmers of the fields, and the tradesmen and innkeeps of towns. He likely could have worked in any of those trades, before this war.

The last man in the center needed no introduction. Ser Bryard Bones. His tattered and road-worn tabard was black, and its sigil was a bleached white skull. Twas a simple device to bear, but its message was clear. This man is a bringer of death. Whether beneath some Lord's banner, or as a robber knight in the forest. He has built his entire existence upon the misery and suffering of others, long before war came to this land.

Gyles immediately noticed that there were no chairs for him nor Ser Amory to sit in. We are to stand before them and hear their words, nothing more. Gyles had to suppress a sardonic grin. Did I expect them to offer us customary hospitality? I am more surprised that this meeting wasn't the obvious trap that I thought it to be.

Ser Bryard was the first to speak. "Be welcome," the robber knight began mockingly. "You stand before Bryard Bones of Seagard, Tregar of Tolos, and Robbett of…" Bones looked inquisitively at the large bandit in the leathers.

"It don't fucking matter," was the bandit's simple response, and Ser Bryard chuckled, while Tregar of Tolos smiled slightly.

After a moment, the grin disappeared from Bryard Bones' face. "I am no great lover of meaningless conversation, so I will make the point of our meeting here today clear: the offer you are about to receive is the only one you will be given."

Ser Amory stood in silence, and Gyles similarly stood still with a neutral expression. After eyeing the both of them for a moment, Ser Bryard continued to speak: "We have more than enough men gathered about this fort to take it this very night." The corners of Ser Bryard's mouth turned upward in a slight, cold smile for a moment, before continuing. "You'll bleed us to be sure, but then you'll be dead. Hardly any good that'll do ya."

Ser Bryard sighed. "So," the leader of the brigands began, "I have a proposal to make. You and yours leave that fort, before the sun has set. Continue north, to Maidenpool. You aren't far now. So long as you continue on from there, we won't have any more cause for hard feelings." Ser Bryard stared at the two knights before him with extreme disdain. "Enough of the false heroics. Me and mine have a use for coin to fill our purses. We don't need nor want to die in battle. Leave these lands, and we'll let you be."

Ser Bryard drew a dirk from his belt. "I give every potential foe a chance to give me what I desire before I kill them. You lot," the robber knight nodded at Ser Amory, "had your chance long ago to leave. And yet you refused. As did that sniveling sword-swallower from Corn Cob Hall, who wasn't man enough to come and face me in parley today."

Bryard turned to look at Gyles. "I am sure that you and yours played a part in the deaths of my men outside Corn Cob Hall." The robber knight spread his arms wide. "I am not, however, without mercy. I extend my offer to you as well, Ser Lorch, and to Ser Corne, despite the fact you both have already spurned my offer of mercy."

Ser Bryard leaned forward, his face all too suddenly full of a cold, murderous fury. He threw his dirk, and its point buried itself in the pavilion's center post. "If you are still in that fort come morning, we'll fight our way in and kill the lot of you. Every knight, every farmer, every servant. Every woman, every child, and every babe at the breast. And as you watch them bleed and die, you will know that you had the chance to save them, and failed."

Though he had held his tongue up until this point, Ser Amory was quick to hotly retort. "Methinks the only truth you've spoken today was that threat, cutthroat!" Ser Amory jabbed a gauntleted finger at the three bandit leaders arrayed in front of him. "I've killed enough of you godless bastards that there is hardly room enough for the rest of you in the Seven Hells. Gods willing, it will be your blood that I spill before falling, come tomorrow."

Gyles nodded in agreement. Well said, Ser Amory. I too hope to take as many of these brigands as I can with me into the grave. Did they truly expect us to believe their offer? To meekly abandon our strategic position, and return to the woods to be slaughtered in an ambush? If we are to all die, then it should be in a place where the bandits' casualties will be most grievous.

Red-faced and enraged, Ser Amory stormed from the pavilion. As Gyles turned to leave, the large brigand, Robbett, spoke up. "He begged me to let him go, y'know," the brigand chortled. Gyles stopped in his tracks. "That peasant lad you had scoutin' ahead. We let him go at first, for the fun of it. Ya'd think that a person would make for harder prey to track than a deer, but twasn't so with that sorry fool. We'd caught him again within the hour."

Gyles stood still, with his back to the brigands. He clenched his fists, as a red rage threatened to completely overtake his senses and judgement. Robbett chortled as he continued. "When we tied him to that tree, the fool boy started crying for his mother. The lads an' I had a good laugh about that, 'afore we filled him full o' arrows." The brigand's tone dripped with venom. "Methinks I'll tell his ma all about it, when I find her in that fort come tomorrow." Robbett chuckled darkly. "Tisn't the only reason I'll be searchin' for her, o' course."

"Not if I find you first," was Gyles' quiet response. In all his life, Gyles had never met a man as deserving of a slow and agonizing death as Robbett. Gyles turned to regard the burly brigand, his features contorted in an expression of murderous hate. Robbett didn't respond. Instead, his lips peeled back into a feral smile, full of brown and broken teeth. An odd light burned in the brigand's eyes, and he merely nodded in acknowledgement at Gyles. Without another word, Gyles turned and exited the pavilion.


No matter where he looked from atop the hillfort's crumbling walls, Gyles could see campfires burning. From the way they make merry, you'd never know that they would be fighting and killing as soon as the sun rises. Faint whispers of raucous laughter and drunken merriment drifted up the hillside. The bandits were eating and drinking well. Gorging themselves on their ill-gotten plunder. A cold gust of wintery air whistled along the top of the battlements, and Gyles was surprised that it only caused him to shiver slightly. I'm finally growing accustomed to the cold.

Gyles frowned. Not that it matters anymore. Come tomorrow, all my concerns and torments will be gone, permanently. It was odd. He had been afraid of dying outside of Corn Cob Hall, when he had narrowly escaped death only due to the intervention of Ser Jarmen. He had also been afraid of dying during the riots in King's Landing, when Mors had saved his hide.

There's no one left to save me now. Such thoughts did not bring the previous fear that he had felt. Rather, Gyles felt despondent. So many mistakes, so many regrets. Amends that he dearly wished to make, and now never would.

He wished he could see his father and mother again one last time, to apologize for his foolishness. I'm their only living child. There had been others, but they had all been born still in the cradle. Now they are to be left completely alone. They will never truly know what became of me. My mother will forever look north, hoping and praying to one day behold a son that is ne'er to return.

Gyles thought about his father, and the argument they'd had the day after he had been knighted. What did you wish to tell me then, father, when I stormed from the room? Like his grandfather and uncles, Gyles was to become a forgotten name in the blood-soaked annals of history. How I wish I had stayed! Gyles' breath caught in his throat, and he felt tears of grief well in his eyes. How I wish I had listened! Alone atop the battlements, Gyles felt tears begin to run down his cheeks.

Rubbing at his eyes with the edge of his scarf, Gyles continued to muse on his regrets. How very queer. My life is to end in short order, and yet time has never seemed to crawl by so agonizingly slowly. He wondered if a man that had been condemned to the gallows, or the headsman's block, felt the same way the night before he was executed. With naught but your sorrows to truly keep you company.

There were others, too, those that had already perished. Good men, that Gyles wished he could thank for all that they had done for him. Yet when he had the chance, he hadn't. Me and my damnable pride. He wished that he could thank Mors, his ever-faithful squire, for all that he had done to help him. There had been countless opportunities, yet Gyles never thought to. I was always looking ahead, at my next goal. I never thought to appreciate all that I'd achieved, and those who had helped me to reach such successes.

Ser Jarmen, too, had died before Gyles could truly thank him for all that he had taught him. He wished that he could live, to try and carry on the legacy of the aged knight, and the long-dead Prince that Ser Jarmen had so deeply admired. Ser Jarmen hoped for me to listen, and to learn. To not only understand what he hoped to teach me, but to follow such lessons in my own life. Gyles smiled morosely. A changing of the guard, from the old to the young. The slight smile turned into a bitter frown. Forgive me, Ser Jarmen. I wish that I could. If only I had more time!

As he sat in silence, a third face, a third regret, appeared in Gyles' mind. A young man, with blue-grey eyes and brown hair. A quiet lad with a kindly and reserved demeanor, which was thoroughly at odds with his massive and imposing appearance. Ser Maegor. Someone who, despite Gyles' fortuitous intervention in an attempt on his life, had no real reason to trust Gyles. He was under no obligation to see that I was given a place in the Queen's court. And yet he did all the same. He didn't even ask for anything in return.

Gyles was unused to such unreserved kindness from those outside his own immediate kin. In a way, it had taken him off guard. Most people always want something from you. As I would want something from them. When Ser Maegor had helped him, without such expectations of aid or reward, Gyles had been truly flummoxed.

Gyles' life had been pervaded by a sense of abiding cynicism, that had only been reinforced by every misfortune that he'd suffered. Ser Maegor, and his kindness, landed the first true blow against it. Mors and Ser Jarmen both did much and more to wear it down. But methinks that their kindness would have meant little and less to me had Ser Maegor not introduced such grave doubts into my initial view of strangers, and their ultimate intentions.

Ser Maegor was dead now, just as Ser Jarmen and Mors were. Slain by the Greens over Tumbleton. Gyles shook his head. It all felt so grossly unfair. He wished he had come to such realizations much sooner, when each of the three men were still alive. To let them know how much he truly appreciated what each man had done for him. To let them know just how grateful I am for their kindness. To let them know that it has changed me, for the better.

As he looked at the burning cookfires ringing the base of the hill, Gyles felt a sudden wellspring of resolve within himself. Mayhaps I cannot thank Ser Jarmen, Mors, and Ser Maegor for their kindness. But I will prove to them that it was not in vain. Gyles was still living, breathing, and full of life. As are the rest of the occupants of this hillfort. Gyles began to climb down from the ancient, wind-worn battlements. So long as we live, the battle has not yet been lost.


"Are you certain of this, Ser Gyles?" Tristifer of Oldstones looked down at Gyles from Evenfall's saddle.

Gyles looked the Riverman in the eye. "I am. I realize that I am asking much of you, Tristifer. Will you do it? I would not ask it of you if I did not think it were absolutely necessary."

Tristifer nodded, but there was a distant and deeply pained look in his eyes. "I loathe the idea of leaving now. I feel as though I am the worst of cravens for doing so."

Gyles shook his head vehemently. "You are our best scout and tracker, and you now ride our swiftest horse. Do not take the main road. The bandits' encirclement is not so strong to the hillfort's rear. Slip through their lines, and as soon as you are clear, ride hard for Maidenpool. Lord Mooton may yet be the source of our salvation!"

Tristifer nodded, but still appeared unconvinced.

"We'll make it, Tristifer," Gyles said firmly. "All of us. Go now, fetch Lord Mooton and his men." He smiled confidently up at the Riverman. "I'll see you soon."

Tristifer nodded in silence. In his eyes, Gyles could see untold depths of emotion, and pain. He does not want to go. He cannot bear the thought of being a sole survivor once more. However, after a silent final moment of understanding passed between the two men, Tristifer took hold of Evenfall's reins, and rode at a brisk trot out of a crumbling and dilapidated postern gate of the hillfort.

Gyles nodded at the few gold cloaks who were standing watch at the gate, who nodded in turn at him. Gyles then nearly staggered under the crushing weight of a hand clasping his shoulder. "Twas nobly done, Ser," said Ser Horton Cave. He had found the bear pelt-clad landed knight reading letters from his daughter alone in torchlight, and enlisted his help in convincing Tristifer to ride for outside aid.

Gyles turned and smiled up at the massive knight. "Thank you, Ser Horton," was his simple response. "But I am not yet finished." The Clawman's bushy brown eyebrows knitted together in confusion at Gyles' words, but he soon nodded.

"Lead the way, then," Ser Horton responded, doing his best to muster a weak grin. He is trying to remain optimistic about our chances, as I am. Gyles turned, and led Ser Horton into the hillfort's main yard.

A large bonfire had been built in its center, and the majority of Ser Jaehaerys' smallfolk, Ser Amory and his men, and the Queen's party stood around it, trying to keep warm. There is no point in subtlety any longer. We have already been discovered and surrounded by the brigands.

Standing before the fire, Gyles took a moment to survey the most influential faces that stood around it. The firelight glinted off of Ser Amory Lorch's dented and scarred armor as he regaled many of the peasant children present with tales of a tourney at far-away Lannisport. The children have known naught but terror for far too long. Even so, despite the gnawing fear that he undoubtedly felt within himself, Ser Amory did what he could to distract the children from their own fears and raise their spirits, if only for a short while.

The Lady Mysaria stood at the edge of the fire's light, conversing quietly with her Lysene sellsword. Ser Torrhen stood before the fire, and stared into the flames with a distant expression in his eyes. Even now, the northern knight tries to think of some plan, some solution, to our troubles. As others sink further and further into the depths of despair, Ser Torrhen is thinking, always thinking. But there seems to be no logical path to our survival to be found.

Earlier in the evening, Ser Willam Royce had miraculously awoken from the extended period of unconsciousness caused by the grave blow to his head. The pallor of his face was ashen beneath the bloody bandage wrapped about his head, and he struggled to stand without swaying slightly. However, he was outfitted in his bronze rune armor, and wore his Valyrian Steel sword at his side. The heir to Runestone does not intend to die lying down.

Standing before the fire with Ser Horton, Gyles experienced a final moment of hesitation. From this point on, there is no turning back. The road you seek to take will likely lead to utter ruin, and death. Gyles continued to hesitate, as more and more sudden self-doubts filled his mind. Gyles shook his head. What other choice is there now? Even if Tristifer manages to bring Lord Mooton and reinforcements, there is little chance we'll hold the fort until they arrive if we don't act now.

Gyles looked at his feet, and closed his eyes. In the depths of his mind's eye, Gyles could suddenly see Ser Jarmen. The old knight was smiling, his expression full of gentle strength and determination. His eyes met Gyles' gaze directly, and were full of pride. This is my opportunity. Gyles looked back up, to regard all the people standing before him. I won't miss it, Ser Jarmen. You have my word.

Gyles drew his sword from its scabbard. The rasping of the metal on leather was loud enough over the sounds of crackling flame and subdued conversation that nearly all eyes about the fire turned to regard Gyles.

Gyles unbuckled his scabbard from his sword belt, and regarded the well-worn cured leather in his hand for a moment. Without any further hesitation, he tossed the scabbard into the flames of the bonfire. Pointing his sword at the scabbard, as its leather blackened and curled within the flame, he projected his voice as loudly as possible.

"I have tossed my scabbard to the flame for one reason, and one reason alone! My steel will remain bare, and in my hand, until I have the chance to receive a new means of containing it!"

Gyles nodded his head out of the hillfort's main gate, in the direction of the bandits' main encampment at the base of the hill. "Methinks I'll find a new one down there! Those godless fiends drink and make merry below us, certain of an easy victory tomorrow morn!" Gyles' voice rose in strength and intensity, fueled on by a burning anger, and determination. "I can speak only for myself, but I do not intend to give them the victory that they desire."

Gyles spread his arms wide as he continued to project his voice. "Why do we desire to meekly stand by and fight these brigands, on their terms? Are we all truly so fearful, so lacking in initiative? The men below us are bloodthirsty feeders of carrion, and cravens! They wish to live their life by the sword, wrenching their plunder from the hands of those who can't defend themselves."

Gyles held his sword high aloft in the air. "Then let us defend ourselves! Let us give them a taste of the bitter steel that they so cruelly wield! If they intend to make us bleed and suffer, then I intend to make them pay dearly for every drop of blood that they shed!"

Gyles pointed his sword once more at the gate. "I will march forth, and take the fight to them! I will ride no horse, for I have no intent to flee, should the tide of battle turn against me. In the name of all Seven Gods, and on the honor of my family name, I swear that I shall see these brigands slain, or die trying!"

Each and every individual in the yard was silent, and staring at Gyles. Many are still afraid. And who can blame them? The men encamped below us are monstrous. Each and every one of us, no matter how brave we claim to be, fears dying a torturous death at their hands.

Gyles turned, and made his next appeal directly to the large crowd of smallfolk that stood around Ser Jaehaerys. "Come tomorrow, those bandits will kill us all, if they can. They care not for those that you love! They will run them through with cold steel, or they will trample them underfoot, or mayhaps hang them from this fort's walls! They have done it before, and they'll gladly do it again!"

Gyles took in a deep breath. "If you won't fight to save yourselves, then fight to save those that you care for most dearly! I should think that there is no man nor woman in this fort that is so craven that they would be unable to find the strength of conviction to stand and fight for those that they love!"

Amongst the faces in the crowd of smallfolk, Gyles could make out the gamekeeper and his wife. Both of their visages were gaunt, and hollow with grief for their slain son. Gyles watched as the gamekeeper turned to regard his two young daughters huddled together nearby in the yard. A cold expression of resolve came over his face.

A voice spoke up to Gyles' side. "I'll stand with you, Ser Gyles!" Drawing his bastard sword free of its scabbard, Ser Horton tore the leather sheath free of his swordbelt and tossed it into the flames of the bonfire.

"Who else will stand with us?!" Ser Horton roared. "Who?!" The massive Clawman swung his gaze back and forth across the yard, and the occupants standing within it. "WHO?!" the Knight of the Deep screamed, spittle flying forth from his lips.

"I will!" Shouted Ser Willam Royce. Staggering slightly at the motion, the Valeman drew his Valyrian Steel sword, and tossed its jeweled scabbard into the flames of the fire.

More and more voices joined the sudden frenzied chorus. Swords leapt free of scabbards, and the self-same scabbards were tossed into the flames. Those who did not have swords to wield picked up whatever weapons could be found. Spears, kitchen knives, cudgels, and even chunks of crumbling stone were lifted into the air by the roaring crowd.

Gyles held his sword aloft in the air. "WITH ME!" he screamed, and charged to the hillfort's ancient gate, lifting its rotten wooden crossbar with the help of Ser Horton. Pushing the gate of the fort open, Gyles charged forth into the night, at the head of a screaming mob.

As he sprinted down the icy, muddy hill in the direction of the brigands' main encampment, Gyles looked up one last time to the sky. He was certain that the stars of Dorne were shining amongst the night sky's glittering expanse, and felt an overwhelming sudden burst of joy within his heart. Mors was right. If I am to die tonight, my soul will easily find the road home.


The battle that ensued was nothing short of utter chaos. Bleary-eyed and bewildered bandits were savagely set upon as they staggered forth from their tents, some still drunk on their stolen wine. Gyles, amongst other knights, used the protection of their mail mittens to grab flaming logs from campfires and toss them into tents, setting them alight.

Though they were heavily outnumbered, the occupants of the hillfort fought like men and women possessed. With nothing to lose, they battled their foes with reckless, enraged abandon, and the brigands were unable to gain any initiative or cohesion amidst the chaos. Gyles' sword was red with blood, and he pushed further and further into the encampment. Where are you? A screaming bandit ran at Gyles, an axe raised above his head. Gyles deflected the overhead swing with his rounded shield, and swung his sword with such savage strength that he cut the bandit's head completely from his shoulders.

Covered in blood, Gyles continued to stalk further and further into the camp. "Where are you, Robbett?!" Gyles roared. "I've returned! Come out and fight me!" A shrieking and flaming brigand staggered forth from a burning tent, running directly at Gyles. Gyles bashed his shield into the man's flaming chest, forcing him into the icy sludge of the ground. He slammed his sword through the brigand's heart with such ferocity that when he withdrew it, he saw mud smeared on its point from the ground beneath the brigand.

"Where are you?!" Gyles continued to scream into the din of battle. "Come out and face me, you gutless craven!" Though his rage had filled him with a nearly inhuman strength, it also made him less observant of his surroundings. It was for this reason that Gyles nearly didn't see the massive rusted warhammer swinging at his chest from his left flank.

At the last moment, Gyles raised his shield, so that it took the blow, rather than allowing the hammer to crumple his breastplate, and his chest beneath it. The blow sent an intense strum of pain through his arm and wrist, and a large dent appeared on the surface of his shield. Laughing madly, Robbett swung his massive iron warhammer again, this time in an overhead swing directly at Gyles' head. Gyles leapt to the side, avoiding the blow, and landed on top of his left arm. The pain that lanced through his wrist caused Gyles to howl with pain, and he wrenched his arm free of his shield as he stood. That blow to my shield may have broken my wrist.

His left arm hanging limply at his side, Gyles rushed forward, ducking under another heavy swing of Robbett's warhammer. As he passed the brigand leader, he slashed to the side, opening a deep and bloody wound on his left calf. The brigand roared in pain and fury, and pivoted on his right heel in the mud. The movement was so fast that Gyles had no time to react. The pommel of Robbett's warhammer slammed into the side of Gyles' helm, stunning him and knocking him into a heap in the mud.

Gyles' sword tumbled end over end from his grasp into the flames of the burning camp. As Gyles pulled himself up to his knees, Robbett planted his right foot into Gyles' chest, knocking him flat on his back into the slushy mud. With his right knee, Robbett leaned with his full weight into Gyles' chest, pinning him into the mud, and causing him to gasp for air.

Robbett tossed aside his warhammer, and wrenched the visor of Gyles' helm open with a massive hand. He curled the other hand into a fist, and delivered a ferocious punch into Gyles' exposed face. Gyles felt his nose crumple, and stars exploded in his vision as his head slammed backward into the ground.

Robbett leaned forward, so close that Gyles could still smell his breath despite the fact that his nose was broken and bleeding. It smelled of stale wine, and rancid meat. "Go ahead then," the bandit grunted through gritted teeth. "Beg me to kill ya now, and I'll make it quick."

Gyles' thoughts were sluggish and jumbled, and he struggled to remain conscious as his vision spun wildly, full of white and black flashing spots. Gaining his bearings as best he could, Gyles spat a mouthful of his blood into Robbett's face. In response, Robbett slammed Gyles' head back into the mud, forcing it further and further into the sucking earth. Muddy sludge began to envelop Gyles' face, and he began to choke and splutter as Robbett drowned him in the mud. Gyles struggled mightily at first, but his movements grew weaker and weaker the longer his face remained submerged in the sludge.

Suddenly, the pressure upon his face and chest was gone. Hacking and coughing, Gyles lifted his head from the mud. Robbett was lying in the mud next to Gyles, twitching violently. A dirk had been forced in a downward angle through the back of his head, its point emerging out through the bottom of his jaw. Standing above both Robbett and Gyles was Ser Jaehaerys Corne's gamekeeper, breathing heavily.

He knelt in the mud next to Gyles for a moment, leaning in close. "I'll fetch you help, Ser!" the man shouted in his ear, and sprinted off into the night, as the lights of numerous crackling fires threw grotesque and distorted shadows along the treeline at the forest's edge.

Gyles tried to rise from the mud, but found that he was utterly unable to find the strength to do so. At first he felt freezing cold, but over time, a comfortable warmth began to settle across his body. Try as he might to stay awake, Gyles felt his consciousness slipping. A small voice in the back of his mind was screaming that if he fell asleep now, he would ne'er wake. I'm so tired. Gyles' eyes began to drift close.

"Not yet, Ser," the voice said.

Gyles' eyes fluttered back open. "Mors," Gyles croaked. His loyal squire was kneeling next to him in the mud, looking down upon him.

"Aye," the squire replied simply. His squire looked over his shoulder at the treeline, as though he were looking at something hiding in the darkness just beyond perception. "I said not yet!" The squire shouted at the trees.

Gyles blinked, and his squire was gone. In his place knelt Ser Jarmen. "Come now," the ancient knight said softly, a smile upon his face. "They're almost here." The elderly knight took Gyles' hand in his, and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "Have courage."

Gyles was beset by a fit of coughs, which caused him to squeeze his eyes shut. When he opened them again, he could see that he was surrounded by several men. "By all the Gods!" a voice exclaimed in mute horror at the sight of him.

"Quiet!" a voice barked. Ser Horton. "Help me lift him!" the Clawman shouted, and Gyles felt a sudden wave of pain wash across his body as he was lifted from the mud.

"Ser Horton!" Gyles gasped weakly, as he was carried across the ruins of the bandits' encampment.

"What is it?" the knight asked kindly, in an almost fatherly tone.

"Did we win?" Gyles croaked weakly.

He heard Ser Horton chuckle. "They're gone, Gyles. We killed nearly the whole lot of em'. A few escaped, but methinks they won't ever again have the numbers to cause any trouble."

Gyles smiled redly. "Good," he whispered. Though his body was wracked with pain, Gyles felt a triumphant burst of energy flood throughout his frame. We did it. Thank you Maegor. Thank you Mors. Thank you Jarmen.


A/N: Gyles' journey from the capital has almost reached its end, and he is truly beginning to internalize its lessons. Thank you for reading, and we will eagerly await your reactions in the comments. Thanks to TMI Fairy, Kiina70, dire213, Kalstorm99, Greywing101, HarwinSnow, and several guests for their previous reviews!

Answer to Leonel fallen's comment: Vermithor is noticeably larger than the Cannibal for several reasons. For one, as a royal dragon (of a former King, no less), Vermithor has been fed well all of its life, allowing it to grow consistently for the many decades it has lived. I am confident given Martin's descriptions that it was the second largest dragon alive at the beginning of the Dance after Vhagar. The Cannibal, while a formidable and terrifying beast, has never been tamed and has been forced to scavenge/ hunt its entire existence, limiting its ability for growth. So while the Cannibal is meaner/ more well-versed in killing dragons, Vermithor is larger and bulkier. Think of them like a wolf in the wild vs one in captivity.